


very unlike a poirot

by Skyuni123



Category: The Brokenwood Mysteries
Genre: Anxiety, Case Fic, Episode: s06e03 Dead Men Don't Shoot Ducks, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Murder Mystery, Nightmares, Slow Build, slight spoilers for season six
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:41:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21656719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyuni123/pseuds/Skyuni123
Summary: A woman falls from an third-floor apartment, a local video game group is caught up in a mystery, and two friends become a little bit more in the dark of the night.
Relationships: Jared Morehu/Mike Shepherd
Comments: 20
Kudos: 72





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [5 Bottles of Wine and 1 Bottled Courage](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17136299) by [Loz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz). 



> Many thanks to Loz's _5 Bottles of Wine and 1 Bottled Courage_ for making me consider this pairing. Also, check out their fic, it is the best. 
> 
> tw for mentions of suicide, vomit and gun violence - also there's a bit of gore in the first and last chapters.

**Saturday**

It is not easy for one to be held at gunpoint, and it's even harder to come to terms with that experience. The human body is a miraculous thing, sometimes – it recovers from fatal wounding with little to no issues afterwards; parts can be torn off and reattached with very little loss of feeling; but the human mind... tends to hold on to things.

Anxiety is overestimating a threat and underestimating someone's ability to deal with it, and that goes for any situation, really, anything at all – but it doesn't feel right to wake up in the middle of the night, covered in sweat, with his heart going a million beats a minute and the feeling of a shotgun barrel being pressed against the back of his head.

It's been two weeks since the stand-off at the house, and Mike's still not quite over it.

He expects he won't be for quite some time.

But he's been in the game long enough to know what to do. He takes his pills to help him sleep, goes and sees the counselor that they've set up for him, and resolutely ignores Telemore Rise when he drives home after work every day.

Things are quiet. There's not been much in the way of murders in the last two weeks, and for Brokenwood, that's something. After the exhumation of Jayden Doyle's body, and Corina's burial, things are quiet.

There's a spate of burglaries, fracas down near the beach between a bunch of freedom campers, and Brokenwood Island loses a DOC hut to unsafe bacon cooking, but for Brokenwood, that's quiet.

He chose the 'murder capital' of New Zealand for a reason – or at least, it chose him for the same.

Mike's phone drags him from his slumber at 4.07am on Saturday morning – it's Kristen, and it's bad news.

He probably shouldn't be driving – he can feel the sleeping pills still making their way through his system, and he's groggy as all hell, but it's first thing in the morning and the roads are quiet. A light mist curls over the road, makes it harder to see, but he doesn't encounter a single car until he gets into town proper.

The Massey Apartments aren't apartments in the way that they'd be in the City, they've only three stories and a couple of units, complete with balconies, but it's the closest that Brokenwood has to a high-rise.

The first thing he notices is Jared, looking sick and more uncomfortable than he should be, sitting on the edge of a low wall near the entrance to the building. The second thing he notices is the body, her hair splayed out around her like wings on an angel, the pavement smeared with her blood.

“Jocelyn Sims.” Kristen says, and leans up on the edge of the Kingswood as he arrives. She's got an oversized keep cup of coffee clutched in one hand. “Thirty years of age – she was in that unit up there at the top.”

“Sims?” Mike asks. “Relation of yours?”

“Mmm, possibly?” Kristen muses. “It's not really a popular name, but I never met her at Christmas or anything if she was.”

The balcony three stories up extends slightly further out above the two balconies below it. It's not unreasonable to suggest...

“CIB doesn't think it's suspicious, considering the victim's background.” Kristen replies, at his unasked question. “But Gina will be able to tell us more. Do you want to go and do your... thing?”

“Well, I got out of bed for a reason.”

She just raises an eyebrow at him and goes back to her coffee. “Go wild. You've got a few minutes before the boys take her back to the station.”

He starts to move, before he remembers. “Jared?”

“He found the body.”

That's what he'd suspected. “I'll have to have a chat to him. Send him home and get him to come into the station later. He looks rough.”

“Will do.” Kristen says, and claps him on the shoulder as she goes.

It's spring, but his breath comes out in cold puffs as he kneels down next to Jocelyn. Her body is a gruesome sight – one of the worst he's seen in quite a while, with deep concussion marks around her head and neck. There's so much blood.

“Jocelyn, I'm Mike.” He says, and puts his hand on the ground beside her body. “Why don't you tell me what happened here? When you're ready.”

And in the cool morning air, peace at last, she tells him her story.

  
  


The fact that Kristen can make coffee now is very disconcerting, but Mike welcomes it when he gets into the station at 5.30, eyelids drooping. He could do with a nap in the back corner of his office, but he drags himself through the initial paperwork for ruling the case a suicide, before he dozes off at his desk, coffee forgotten.

He jolts awake, sharply, at about 7, his heart in his mouth, and has to take a second to feel around the base of his neck for a phantom shotgun barrel. God. He'd do anything for a proper rest.

Sipping at his coffee, he finds it cold and bitter – much like Kristen's older attempts at making it. Ugh. He pours the rest down the sink in the kitchenette and sets about brewing a fresh batch.

Breen, the only member of their team who didn't have to deal with waking up at the crack of dawn, swans in at about 8.55, looking chipper and far too happy for such a time on a Saturday morning. “Morning, sir!” He says, and then notices the look on Mike's face. “Been here for a while, I take it?”

“Since 5.30.” He replies, and swallows a mouthful of coffee the wrong way.

Bloody mornings.

After spluttering for far too long – Breen had offered (threatened) to do the Heimlich Maneuver to save his life, but Mike had politely declined – he continues. “Suspected suicide, out at the Massey Apartments.”

“Jesus.” Breen replies, and moves over to sit at his desk. “Do we know who?”

“A Jocelyn Sims. Thirty, lived alone on the third floor.”

“Jesus.” Breen blanches, going even whiter than he usually is. “I know- knew her. Josie? A suicide? There's no way.”

“I think you better give me some more details.” Mike says, and goes to fetch his recorder and notebook from his desk.

The thing is – he'd thought the same. Josie hadn't told him much, but something about the circumstances of her death seemed _wrong._

-

Sam didn't know Josie closely, but they'd met through Brokenwood's local online gaming group, which he'd joined for the sake of “getting to know the community a little better, and to get out of the house.” He'd only gone along a few times – when it was held at the local Internet Cafe, but it had not really been for him.

“Most of them are terrible.” Sam explains, “Incels, terrible nerd guys, you know the type – the kind of guys who don't ever really seem to wash.”

Mike doesn't, really, but he goes along with it for the sake of his note-taking. “Go on.”

“But Josie and some of the others were actually alright. We had a _Civ 5_ game that went on for most of a day but it felt like half an hour, it went so well. It was just fun for the sake of fun.”

Mike doesn't know what ' _Civ_ ' is either, but he can Google it when Breen's not around. Interrupting Breen's train of thought – since he's beginning to stare off into space a little nostalgically - he asks, “Josie?”

“Yeah. Josie. She was _so_ good at _Civ_ , she had this fantastic strategy with Casimir III that we never really figured out. She wasn't just good at _Civ_ , she was clever too.” Breen pats the table thoughtfully. “Why are you ruling it a suicide?”

“Medical records say that she was on a variety of anti-depressants and other mood-altering prescription drugs at the time of her death, and she had attempted before.” He'd had a chance to look over the records CIB had pulled just before he'd fallen asleep, and it also seemed to fit, despite his discomfort with the ruling.

“Yeah, but most people are on anti-depressants.” Breen replies, eyes a little glazed over. “I mean look at the world, it's on fire, of course we're all sad. And the suicide attempt... that was years ago. She'd gotten- I mean, you don't get over that kind of thing, really, but she'd come to terms with it. She made that clear.”

“We'll get the autopsy results back from Gina and go from there, okay?” Mike says, gently, because Breen looks genuinely very upset. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” Breen replies, but he doesn't look it. “I'll get in contact with the next of kin.”

Mike lets him leave, because it'll probably keep his mind off things if he actually has something to do.

“Senior?” One of the newer cops, who he's not quite learned the name of yet, calls him to the front just after nine am. “I've got Jared Morehu for you.”

“I'll be right out.”

Jared looks _rough._ Discovering a body isn't an easy thing for anyone, and he's seen more than most. He's swathed in his jacket, jiggling a little bit in his seat, and the whole anxious energy thing is so very unlike him.

“You didn't need to come in so early.” Mike says, gently, and gestures towards the door. “Shall we go for a walk?”

The mist has cleared some from the roads around town, and there's people out and about now, walking their dogs, getting coffee from the coffee cart and meeting their friends for brunch.

Jocelyn Simms wouldn't be among them, though Mike briefly wonders what she would do if she was. Was she a latte kind of woman? Had she met up with friends on the weekend for eggs benedict at one of the new fancy cafes along the main strip? Would they notice her absence?

He buys Jared a coffee, because he recognises the look in his eyes. He's hungover, alongside everything else.

They sit together on a park bench, looking out towards Brokenwood Common.

Jared doesn't want to talk, or is too energised to think of how to start, so Mike just asks, “You found Jocelyn's body. What were you doing around the Massey Apartments at that time of the morning?”

“Right in with it, eh?” Jared replies, staring somewhere off into the middle distance, hands deep in the pockets of his swandri. “You don't beat around the bush.”

“As much as I wish we were doing this over a bottle of red back at my place, I think you want to talk.” Mike replies, carefully. “Why don't we get this over with and you can rest up.”

“Yeah.” Jared mutters. “I'll definitely be able to do a lot of resting after this morning.”

“I can organise someone for you to talk to-”

“Nah mate, I'll be okay.” Jared turns and gives him a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. “It's just – with Lesley, I saw her go down and all, and I swam out to her boat, but this was... a lot.”

It's strange to see Jared speechless. Jared knows words, can manipulate language in a way that so few people can, and it's odd to see him at a loss. But he gets it. He really does. Jocelyn Sims' death had been far more gruesome than most. “I understand. Why don't you tell me what you saw this morning?”

  
  


**Friday**

The Frog and Cheetah is full of the rugby crowd, as per usual, when Jared gets there around about ten on Friday night. He resolutely ignores Trudy, because her release from prison still irks him out, and buys a beer from Ray instead.

Some of his mates have abandoned their usual haunt for the new gastropub across town – perhaps prompted by their wives or girlfriends – but the usual suspects are hanging around: Kimberly and Frodo, Billy Franks and his newest fancy boyfriend from the City, Sam and Kristen, and he's even fairly sure he can see Kahu nursing a pint right at the very back.

In truth, he'd probably be more comfortable having a glass of red back home on his porch – with or without Mike - but sometimes he feels like it's good to stick his nose into town and get amongst all the local gossip from the source firsthand.

Mrs Marlowe also loves her gossip, but it tends to be a little distorted when he hears it from her end.

So he sits down at a table with Kristen, Sam, Kimberly and Frodo, grabs himself a pint of whatever doesn't break the bank, and settles in for the latest news.

“Did you hear that his new boyfriend's a _lawyer.”_ Kimberly says, conspiratorialy, and jerks her head towards Billy's new boyfriend. “Like a big one. From the City. Real fancy and all that.”

“Is he.” Kristen doesn't really catch up on the gossip, so Jared's sure she's only really doing it for the companionship of the whole thing. “Did he do any cases we'd know about?”

“Oh, I don't know, and I don't really care.” Kimberly replies, with a shake of her stunning hair. “He's pretty though, don't you think?” She elbows Frodo, who looks like he honestly couldn't care less.

“Mhmm, suppose.” Frodo replies, and goes back to his pint.

Jared briefly wonders whether Frodo likes coming out on Friday nights at all, the way he carries on, head in a beer all night, but they all like Frodo, and it's not as though he's dragging the conversation down.

“Jared?” Kimberly asks, and snaps him from his reviere and back to the pub. “Do you?”

"Sorry, cuz, what were you saying?" He asks, because Kimberly's a good sport, and he does genuinely want to participate in the conversation even though he's not tipsy enough to appreciate it yet.

"I was saying," She says, and it's a little exasperated, because Jared tends to get caught in his own head more often than not. "Is there anyone you've got your eye on at the moment?"

"'Got my eye on'?" He quotes. "You sound like my uncle trying to give me the birds and the bees talk, Kimbs."

"Well, it's a little more subtle than what I could be saying." She replies, and scrunches her nose up at him. "Seriously, Jared. You've been single for, what- a few years, now?"

"I have no trouble with the wāhine in this town, Kimberly, you know that." And that is true. Just because he's not involved in anything a little more serious doesn't mean that he's not... involved with people.

"And what about the tāne of this town?" She asks, cheekily, and it's far too early in the evening for all this.

He rolls his eyes. "You can stop that train of thought right there, Kimbs. How's your love life, Kristen? I spotted Kahu just over there if you wanted to-"

"Kahu and I broke up for a reason." Kristen says, and nudges Sam in the ribs. "Not all of us can find the love of our life while we're still in high school."

"I was just... very lucky." Sam says, in the way where he's a little bit smug but not keen to elaborate on it. Very seriously, he says, "You'll find someone, Kris. There'll be other chess-playing introverts in this town somewhere."

"God, just shut up." She replies. "You know nothing about my interests."

"Well, that just isn't true." Sam says, mock aghast, "I spent..."

Jared tunes the pair of them out for the moment and sips at his beer. It's not as though he's especially been hiding his proclivities, or anything of the sort, really, but they're just not the most public knowledge, in the way that the Mayor's might be.

His ex had said to him once, years ago, just after they'd gotten back from a pride parade in the City, and had been washing the rainbow paint off before they'd headed into town for a drink - "Coming out isn't a one-time thing. It's more of a spectrum. It doesn't ever really stop."

He'd not even really been out then, but it had stuck. Especially in a place like Brokenwood, where the old dears from the church social groups didn't have a 'problem' with queerness, but still frowned down at those who were too open about it, and the rugby lads didn't have a problem, either, but might still call him a poof behind his back.

The whole thing turns his stomach. He needs some fresh air.

He notices that Sam's wandered off during his musing, probably to go home to his missus and all. It's been a while since he's seen Roxy, and he makes a mental note to catch up with her sometime when he gets the chance, if she's even still in town.

It's spring, but it's still cool outside, so Jared perches on a wall away from where the smokers are hanging out and just looks out at the sky.

There's no cloud cover tonight, and the sky is full of thousands of little tiny stars. When he'd gone away for polytech, spent a year or so in the City, he'd always looked up at the sky and missed Brokenwood, with its clear skies and gorgeous nightscapes. It had always been too bright in the City to see much up above.

It's spring, but it certainly hasn't sprung yet. The chill nips at the end of his fingers, and it feels like a frost, which isn't good for the grapes, and it's certainly not good for the daffodils he'd hope would sprout up in his back garden, but there's nothing really to be done about either of those things. He'll just have to hope that the frost decides to leave them alone.

Kahu comes out and joins him after a few minutes. He sits down on the wall as well and shifts about uncomfortably, trying to find a perch as comfortable as the one Jared has, legs crossed and perfectly balanced.

"How do you do that, bro?" He asks, looking a little bit horrified at just how balanced Jared is on the wall.

"I'm just more zen than you, Kahu. It's not my fault that you can't balance like this."

"Whatever." Kahu finally seems to get his balance. "I saw you talking to the others in there. How's... everyone?"

"Kristen is doing well," He replies, because Kahu might care for the others, fleetingly, in the way that most people in a small town do, but it's obvious that his thoughts only lie in Kristen's direction. "She's not dating anyone, and she misses playing chess with someone, because the only other people who play chess in this town are in their 80s."

"Mhmm." Kahu replies, non-committally, and ignores the slight, though it's obvious that Jared's piqued his interest. "And what about you?"

"What about me?" Jared asks, though it's obvious what he's getting at.

"It's been a few years since Aroha..." Kahu lets the rest of his sentence hang in the air. "Cohabitation isn't something to be scared of."

"Yeah, yeah, cut it out." Jared rolls his eyes, good-naturedly. "You team up with the others to get my love life back on track, cuz? Cause I've had more than enough chat about it in the last twenty minutes."

"Maybe it's obvious."

"Maybe you should all stop prying."

Kahu laughs. "You're a hypocrite, Jared."

"Yeah, but in a nice, well-mannered way."

"Mhmm." He says, again. "Anyway. How's Uncle?"

Kahu wanders off home after a few minutes, clearly not willing to try his luck again with Kristen tonight, and Jared heads back inside, the air outside just a little too cold for him to spend much more time out there.

The rest of the night goes by faster than he expects, and he's walking in the direction of home with a few of the lads from the rugby club around 4am, politely tipsy, the night's chill ebbing away with the burn of alcohol in his veins.

He gets along with them well enough, though they're not mates and won't ever be – he doesn't like rugby enough for that – but they're a good chat to have on the way home, and the fact that they're about eight feet tall and built like brick walls is a reassurance when wandering rural roads in the dark.

It's Brokenwood, after all.

They peel off about a k away from his house, so he's forced to make the rest of the walk on his own. It's fine, really. The night is cool and clear, and there's not much in the way of human noise, so he just walks down the main road listening to the occasional sound of moreporks and the water sloshing against the backs of the Mahurangi.

The Massey Apartments are well-lit, despite the time of night, and he cuts through their carpark to save time. It's a little chilly, and the alcohol is wearing off - he really just wants to get home and get into bed as soon as he can.

Loud thumping from above gives him pause. He looks up, cognizant enough in his drink-addled brain, to see a figure leaning over a balcony at the top of the complex.

It's obvious, but clarity is sluggish in the middle of the night, but then he realises they're slipping.

"Wait- STOP." He yells, but it's too late, too slow, and the body slips, falls ungracefully, ungainly, a mass of humanity and hair in the night, and crashes to the ground right in front of him - silent in the fall, and in death.

Jared staggers back, horrified beyond belief, and vomits into a pot-plant by the entrance to the building. "Gods." He hisses out, and wipes his mouth.

She's not alive, he can tell that much, from the shape of her head, and the blood pooling around her chest, but he recognises her. They'd gone to school together, he'd not known her well, but he knew her well enough. "Josie. Shit."

He gets his phone from his pocket, dials clumsily, hands slipping all over the keyboard, and gets 111 on the line. He can hardly find his words.

-

"Jared." Mike turns to him, horrified, later that day. "I didn't know you'd witnessed it, if I had, I wouldn't have asked you-"

"I'm good." Jared forces a smile again, for Mike's sake, because he's seen enough trauma in the last few weeks. He doesn't need to worry about him in this case, when he's got enough to worry about already. "I'll take you up on that counselling offer later."

He hadn't slept when they'd taken him home.

He'd just sat up, staring out into the vineyard, watching the dawn crest over the vines as the sun rose, and gone through the motions of his morning.

He'd staggered to the bathroom to vomit once he'd noticed a spot of blood on his collar, probably just from shaving, but it sent him back to the Apartments, and back to Josie's body.

Shit. He'd never seen it coming.

"Jared." Mike says, and he's got a warm, caring hand on his wrist, and it's too much for right now. "You've gone off into the middle distance again."

"Sounds like me." Jared replies, and does his best to subtly shake him off, because his head hurts, and he wants to sleep. "Is that all you wanted to know? I'm sure security cameras have me at the Frog and Cheetah all night, and I wasn't in much of a state to do anything on my walk home."

"You're not a suspect." Mike says, automatically, like he'd not even thought about it. "Actually... you know the circumstances of the death. Why would you think it wasn't self inflicted?"

"Josie... I mean, I didn't know her that well, but it didn't seem like it. I heard things from her apartment when I was walking by - it's what made me stop - and... well, suicides like that, they're not... very common, are they? If someone wanted a way to go, that'd be one of the last things they'd choose."

"You seem to know a lot about that sort of thing." Mike remarks, and he's still looking at Jared in that caring, worried way, in a way that really hits a little too close to home.

"Yeah." Jared stands, and takes his coffee. "I learned about that sort of thing at school. In health class. It was part of the curriculum."

That's not even close to the truth.

  
  


**Sunday**

Mike wakes up on Sunday morning at about 5am, with one hell of a headache. He takes some Panadol, has a coffee, and opens up his curtains, deciding to face the day straight on. Maybe it's stress, but it's probably because he's still not sleeping properly. He'd only woken up twice with nightmares, but it had been twice too many.

Jared's lights are on across the vineyard, and he knows that Jared likes to sleep in - especially on a Sunday morning - so he grabs his phone and sends him a quick text. Texting is a new thing, and he really doesn't like it - phone calls are so much easier, and it's easier to get a handle on what mood someone's in over the phone - but he feels that it's a little rude to call someone first thing on a Sunday morning when he's not even sure if they're awake.

_M: Penny for your thoughts?_

The reply comes mere minutes later, when he's standing in the kitchen, considering whether to have breakfast before he goes into the station or not.

_J: I hardly think they're worth that much_

And then a follow-up.

_J: why on earth are you awake_

_M: I was considering pancakes before going into work. Keen?_

He wasn't, really, but his head hurts, and he wants something filling. Pancakes are a good start to a morning, even one that's shaping up to be as unpleasant as his is, and they're one of the best things that he can cook.

_J: I am always keen for food I don't have to make myself_

Of course.

_M: Come over, if you want._

_J: yeah will be there in a few chur_

Mike resolutely ignores the warmth in his chest at the thought, and sets about bustling around the kitchen for pancake ingredients. Before Jared's even turned up, the bright rays of dawn are poking in through his kitchen window, and his headache's dulling down to a faint beat behind his eyes.

He still feels unpleasant, a little groggy, and not as well-rested as he should be, but it's manageable, and that's more than enough.

Mike sets out the flour, baking powder, eggs, oats, sugar and milk, alongside bananas, maple syrup and a few other options for toppings. He's not the best cook - he'd been very fortunate to marry women who liked cooking and were good at it - but he can hold his own in a kitchen if need be, and pancakes are one of his best recipes.

Jared knocks on the sliding door when he's just about to crack the eggs, and he looks like hell. With dark bags under his eyes, and truly awful bedhead, it's obvious he's not slept especially well.

Mike worries about his friends, sometimes. Living people are sometimes a lot harder than those who can't speak any longer. It's obvious that Jared's hiding something from him, probably related to the horrifying scene that he'd found at the Massey Apartments, but he doesn't know what.

All he can do is wait and hope that he feels comfortable enough to talk about it.

People are tricky, sometimes.

And so are pancakes.

Jared's bought a punnet of strawberries across from his side of the vineyard. They're mismatched, some are a little small, but it's a lovely gift and Mike tells him so.

"It's not a problem." Jared replies, and he's not bashful about it at all. "They're the start of the summer crop. They've not been the best so far, just 'cause it's been so cold, but I think they're starting to get there."

"Regardless." Mike replies, and adds them to the pile of assorted toppings. "Thank you."

"Well, you're making the rest of the kai." Jared says, a little ruefully. "I figured I should at least contribute. Coffee? I'll make it."

"Please." He might be slowly coming to terms with the fact that he's up so early, but tiredness is still grasping at the corners of his eyes and he still reckons he might end up napping in his office a little later. Coffee, hopefully, will take the edge off.

They dance around each other a little in his small kitchen. It's a little strange to have someone else in there with him - he's spent six years alone in the place - but not unpleasant.

It's just another thing to get used to.

But soon enough, Jared's made coffee, and it's smelling out the place deliciously, and the pancakes are ready and stacked high on a plate on his kitchen island.

It's about a quarter past six, the sun is up, and the grass outside sparkles with a late spring frost. It's cool, too, but not cool enough that it's worth staying inside.

"Outside?" He asks.

"Absolutely." Jared replies, and gives him a bright smile that the comment definitely doesn't warrant.

And... it's nice. It's a nice feeling to be sharing his life with someone, making food in the morning, and sitting out watching the town wake up around them.

It's a little too domestic, somehow.

He doesn't really have the right to be thinking things like that about a friend, but the morning is calm and quiet, and he feels content.

Despite the headache.

He can chastise himself later.

"You fancy yourself a bit of a Masterchef then, eh, Mike?" Jared asks, and helps himself to another pancake, "cause these are good, bro."

"Well, I've had a lot of experience." He says, and grabs another one himself. "You live with enough people, you learn to make things that they like. One of my ex-wives really liked brunch."

"I'm glad that we're benefiting from the knowledge." Jared raises his coffee mug to him. "Cheers, Mike. To making a shit morning worth surviving."

"Cheers." Mike clinks his mug with his and drinks some of his coffee down. He doesn't want to bring up anything that Jared's going to skirt away from - like he obviously had during their chat yesterday morning, but the comment makes him curious. "A 'shit morning'?"

"Yeah." Jared pulls at the sleeves of his hoodie a bit. "Can't say I slept the best last night."

Maybe it's the time of the morning, maybe it's the headache, but he's a little more loose-lipped than he should be. "Welcome to the club."

"You too, huh?" Jared looks him over for a second. "The Jenny thing?"

"It's certainly been sticking around." That's the understatement of the century.

"I mean, it must have been pretty traumatic, for anyone - despite your job, you guys are human too." Jared points out, a forkful of pancake in one hand. "Neil give you anything?"

"Sleeping pills."

"Mmm." Jared wrinkles his nose. "Not for me. I'm all for medicine and all that but I've seen people become dependent on them and that's a scary thought. My auntie - she wasn't like my biological auntie, but I called her that anyway - she's a holistic healthcare practitioner, right? She teaches people about hauora when they're recovering from things, rather than just looking at the physical symptoms."

"Hauora?" Mike's sure he's heard the term before, but not necessarily in the way that Jared is using it.

"Yeah. Healthcare, but overall. It's a way that a lot of us look at it. Imagine your body's a wharenui, right? A whare needs all of its beams, the walls, the roof – it needs everything in balance and in the right place for it to stay upright. Your body's the same way.”

Mike spears a strawberry on his fork, genuinely interested. “Go on.”

“Taha tinana – that's physical things – often damage done to your physical body, but also concepts like respect. Taha hinengaro is about mental wellness. The other two are probably less discussed in medical clinics; taha wairua, spirituality – that doesn't have to be a religion or anything, just a spiritual awareness, and taha whānau, your relationships with your family – once again, not necessarily your family by blood – but how you relate and care for those who you see as your family. If something's unbalanced or neglected then your whole sense of self is thrown off, and you might become unwell. It's thinking about the whole, rather than just singular aspects.”

Mike thinks about the idea for a few minutes. “I like it. It makes a lot of sense.”

“Yeah, I tend to agree.” Jared chuckles, and reaches for his coffee mug again. “Until she says that I'm neglecting my taha whānau because I don't go up north to visit her enough, and it'll negatively affect me in the long run. Whānau, honestly. What can you do?”

"I've barely seen mine in a few years so I wouldn't really know." Mike replies, though the whole thing reminds him of his sister, and of the phone call, and of the hostage situation.

Jared must see his face drop a little. "Biological or not, Mike, I'd hope you'd see some of us here as family, or at the very least, mildly tolerable."

"I've been here six years." Mike gives him a long-suffering look. "If I didn't find you at least mildly tolerable I would have taken the Kingswood back to the City long ago."

"Well, that's good to know." Jared clasps him on the hand, across the table, just for a moment. "Sweet pancakes, by the way. I know I said that earlier but it bears repeating. They are really good."

"You're far too kind."

"Nah, I just believe in thanking people for what they're worth." Jared puts his fork down, sits back and pulls his legs up onto his chair, colour coming back to his face. "What's the best thing that you can cook?"

"I could do a full Christmas roast a few years back, complete with all the trimmings." Mike says, remembering it fondly. "I didn't get to make them much, because they were a once a year occasion, but they were magnificent."

"I bet." Jared replies. "Did you teach yourself or learn from someone else? My mum taught me to cook, but I was always around the rest of the whanau so I just picked things up."

"It was more of a survival tactic." Mike admits, a little more quietly, slight panic hanging in the pit of his stomach, because the moment feels right, but he can hardly ever tell. "One of my ex-partners - he was hopeless in the kitchen. Could hardly tell a kumara and a potato apart. Deciding who's going to make Christmas dinner is less of a decision when one of you can't cook at all."

"Huh." Jared replies, eyes widening a little at the admission, but not saying anything in response. He ponders for a second, then looks up at Mike, a wide grin stretching across his face. "Are you saying you were a bit of a kept man, Mike? I never thought I'd see the day."

"Don't push it." Mike says, but the tension is broken, and the panic disipates as fast as it came. He's relieved, far more than he expected, because it's not easy just saying that kind of thing to anyone, not matter how well he knows them, and he doesn't want to ruin what he has with Jared.

The moment is lost. "What's the best thing you can cook?"

  
  


**Monday**

Jared finds out that Josie's death has been ruled a homicide late on Sunday evening, which means it's splashed all over the front couple of pages of the Courier the next morning.

It's disgusting to see, and he almost can't believe it. For a town as rocked by death as Brokenwood is, he'd expect there to be less of a media frenzy once a new one turns up.

Mike finds him on a park bench just outside the old theatre clubrooms, with a copy of the paper clutched in his hand. He also doesn't look happy.

“Vultures.” Jared says, and gestures at the paper. “It's only been two days.”

“I can't say I'm happy about this.” Mike replies, and slumps down next to him with all the poise of an irritated goose. “I have no idea where they got the tip-off, and now the killer knows that we know.”

“Well, it wasn't from me.” Jared says, “And honestly, who would I tell?”

“I know it wasn't you, Jared.” Mike turns to him, distractedly, and suddenly switches topics abruptly in his usual way, “If you wanted to kill someone, how would you do it?”

“I would throw them in my koro's pigpen.” Jared says, far too quickly for such a nice and sunny day. “Pigs like meat.”

“That was... concise.” Mike says, and almost, almost raises an eyebrow at him. “Do you do a lot of thinking about murder in your spare time?”

“You grow up in Brokenwood, you see a lot of it.” Jared shrugs, though really, he'd not come up with the solution himself at all. Sometime a few years back, probably even before Mike had rolled into town and stolen Jared's heart, they'd had a murder mystery party, and that had been how the murder had been committed.

He'd not even been the one to put the puzzle together in the end. Kristen had solved it, which wasn't very surprising.

“Mhmmm.” Mike hmms, and sits back against the wood of the bench, newspaper still clutched in one hand. “Josie didn't commit suicide.”

“I know.” Jared reminds him, gently, though the idea still sends a spear of memory – bloody, brutal memory – through his head and he has to take a second to remember his train of thought. “It's all over the paper. And Mrs Marlowe told me yesterday night at the evening service at the church.”

“How'd she find out?”

“No idea.”

Mrs Marlowe hadn't scrimped on the details, either, saying something about 'knives' and how it all felt very much like a Poirot, but he didn't know how much of that was true. She always seemed to add another layer to her stories that often turned out to be false.

Mike leaps up from his seat, suddenly energised. “Thanks, Jared. I think Jean and I need to have a well-deserved talk.”

“No problem!” Jared yells at Mike's retreating back. “I'll just- thanks!”

  
  


**Tuesday**

Stabbing is the theme of the hour, and Breen is knee-deep in history books, looking for the exact weapon used to create the puncture wound in Josie's chest.

Mike hadn't spotted it on Saturday morning, since Josie had fallen face up, and the wound was in her back, but it's a curious sight.

It's not a traditional weapon, not a knife or anything they've seen before – it seems like some kind of arrow, judging by the size and shape, but it doesn't match with any kind of standard hunting arrow that the Bloodsports shop sells, and the wound's a little wide at the head for anything modern.

It's all very strange, and clearly meant to make a point.

When he'd spoken to Jean, she'd really not been very helpful as to where she'd found out about the death.

“Oh, I don't remember, dear.” She'd said. “I think it was one of those young people who stay inside a lot – they mentioned it to me off-hand, like they didn't really mean to.”

When pressed, she'd had even less to say.

“I simply don't remember, dear. Do excuse me, I need to head to my kombucha-making class.”

Which hadn't helped.

  
  


Mike had sent Kristen off to interview their people of interest - of which there really weren't many; a couple of Josie's close friends, her brother, who worked on a farm on the outskirts of town, and a few of her coworkers. He was also in the process of getting a list of names of the people who had spent time at the gaming club – though Breen wasn't being very helpful around that, as he had no clue who was presently part of it.

However, the whole thing was beginning to elude him. He just couldn't get a grasp on the killer's motives. Josie, for the most part, seemed like a clever, healthy, kind woman, who didn't have much in the way of enemies.

Brokenwood. It always seems to be the quiet ones.

He's got a splitting headache by noon, so he heads out into the town to recover a sense of perspective and get a fresh eye on things.

The Brokenwood 24/7 Internet Cafe (and Gaming Centre) - the addition is added in brackets, with Sharpie, on the sign - is on the main drag, right above a pie shop, and he eyes it a little warily before heading inside.

Signs up the narrow staircase proclaim 'the fastest internet in Brokenwood', 'private viewing booths' and 'Netflix, but for free!', but they all look a little like they were made in the late nineties, so Mike isn't sure how accurate and potentially copyright-infringing they might be.

The room is grim. Mike doesn't love computers, isn't really a fan of modern technology invading personal spaces, but even he can agree that he prefers to use his laptop at home on the couch as opposed to the Internet Cafe.

He doesn't know how Breen tolerates the space long enough to play games in it.

The room is harshly lit with white strip halogen lights stuck to the ceiling at varying intervals. At the very end is a large photocopier/printer duo. There's three rows of computers, all old, all rough-looking, with six computers to each row. The place is nearly deserted, with only two other occupants - one man, squinting at a bright spreadsheet in one corner, and the attendant, who is reclining in an office chair and snoring slightly, with his feet propped up the end of his desk.

'Gaming centre'? Really? The whole place is lifeless, and absolutely reeks of body odor and cheap air freshener used to cover up said body odor.

He steps over to the desk and feels very silly about waking the man up, but he does it regardless. He clears his throat, which really, is a mistake. The inhale of air he takes in is something he immediately regrets.

"Excuse me?" He asks.

Nothing.

He's seen a lot of dead bodies in his life, but none that snore before.

"Excuse me?" He asks, a little louder.

The man in the back thumps on his computer's hard drive and gives him an angry look.

Tough crowd. "Excuse me?" He asks, again, and this time he gently shakes the man by his shoulder.

The man immediately flips his chair back and wakes. "Sir, I-I wasn't sleeping!" His bleary, red eyes refocus and he notices Mike. Smoothing his hair down, he says sheepishly. "I wasn't sleeping. I was just resting my eyes."

"I'm not here to tell you off." Mike says, gently, and holds up his badge. "I'm DCI Mike Shepherd, with the Brokenwood Police. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"

The attendant sits up, eyes wide, and tries in vain to straighten up his hoodie. "Yeah. Uh. Totally. Sure. Absolutely, officer. Go ahead. I've got nothing to hide."

Mike politely ignores the smell of weed coming out of the man's pores and asks, "What's your name?"

"Jason... uh. Jones."

"Jason Jones?" Mike replies, skeptical, because the whole thing sounds a little like he's making it up. "Do you have any ID on you?"

"Yep. Uh. One sec." He fiddles around in the drawers of the desk and tosses an 18+ card in Mike's direction. "Jason Jones."

"Huh." Mike looks at the ID, which appears to be legit, with some surprise.

However, Jason still looks cagey, which really doesn't help matters. "I'm not in trouble, am I?"

Mike just wants to move things along, so he decides to speed things up in a slightly unorthodox way. "For the sake of expediency, why don't we both ignore the fact that you're definitely high right now, and you just answer my questions instead?"

Jason's eyes goggle, just for a second. "Uh. Yes. Let's just... do that."

"Good." Mike takes a seat in front of him. "What's your job here, Jason?"

"I'm... just the day attendant." Jason replies, slowly, still looking suspicious. "I look after the place weekdays, between nine and five. I sell internet vouchers, things like that. Do you know we have the fastest internet in the town?"

"Really."

"Yeah, we get a bunch of kids in on the weekend, you know - the real esports kind of demographic, who don't have good enough internet out in the wops to play properly, and they spend all day here and wrack up a fortune in bills."

Mike doesn't know, really, but the term 'esports' is just another thing he can Google when he's not talking to a person of interest. "What kind of games do they play?"

" _DOTA_ , _Starcraft_ , _Overwatch_ \- things like that." Jason shrugs, "I'm barely ever here on the weekend, and they're not really my kind of jam."

" _Civ_?"

Jason gives him a strange look. " _Civilisation_ 's not an esports game. It's turn-based strategy. Logic based, things like that. Kids like fast-paced games these days."

"Right." Mike feels a little like the conversation's going nowhere, and suddenly very, very old. "Do you know Jocelyn Simms?"

"Josie?" Jason says. "Yeah, I know her. Bloody legend she is at _Civ_ , eh. Why?"

"I'm currently working a case involving her, and I got pointed in your direction. I heard she had a group that used to get together and play here?"

Jason snorts. "Yeah, man. 'Used to'. They didn't like the vibe this place had, had to go off and find their own den after a couple of weeks. 's fair enough, too. This place is kinda shit."

"Why do you work here, then?" Mike asks, curiously. "That's not relevant to the case, by the way, I'm just interested."

"What other kind of job lets you sit on your arse all day on the internet and pays you twenty-five bucks an hour for the privilege?" Jason shrugs. "Sometimes I might have to reboot the servers or fix a fried screen, but that very rarely happens, and for the most part I just sit on Reddit or work on my screenplay or something. It's cool."

Mike isn't even going to remark on that can of worms. "Well, thank you anyway, Jason. Perhaps don't let other people catch you sleeping on the job?"

"Mhmm." Jason replies, non-committally. "I make no promises."

It's a dead end, so Mike decides to head off back into town. His headache's gone, for the most part, but he feels a little at a loss. The case is eluding him - he feels like there's something obvious he's missing, but he can't put his finger on it.

"Oh yeah." Jason says, calling after him just as he's about to go down the stairs. "Josie's club. I just remembered, I know where they meet now. Want the address?"

"Please." Mike notes down the address. "Thanks."

"No problem, mate." Jason says, and leans back in his chair and shuts his eyes. "No problem."

The address Jason gives him turns out to be one for the local library, which Mike doesn't actually spend a lot of time in, despite his love for books. He only has to ask at the desk about the gaming group, before the woman behind the counter rolls her eyes and says, "Yes, they spend a lot of time in that one," and gestures towards a smaller room off to the side.

The room in question appears to be a study room. It's probably only a few meters by a few metres, and it's completely full to the brim with nerds.

He might be pre-judging, but that's a little what it looks like. They all have laptops, laid out on desks around the room, and he's fairly sure there's about six of them. They look up when he comes in, and one of them, who's probably in their mid-20s, looks up at him and says, "This room's booked."

"I can see that." Mike says, and pulls out his badge again. "I'm DCI Mike Shepherd. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions."

"We're in the middle of a game." One of the others - he can't physically see the speaker, because of their gigantic laptop that's making sounds approximate to the pitch and tone of a jet engine, but he thinks they have green hair. "Can you come back?"

"When?" He asks, because he doesn't particularly want to go back to the station yet anyway, and now he's found the gaming group - or at least, he thinks he has - he doesn't want to let up.

"Ten minutes?" The gamer shrugs. "Maybe?"

"You better still be here when I get back." Mike agrees, and wanders back out into the library. He busies himself with a book about online gaming - it was written in 2012, but he feels that it doesn't hurt to at least try to understand it - while he waits, and heads back to the side room after fifteen minutes or so have passed.

He didn't expect the kids to have done a runner, so he's surprised to see that the room's completely empty when he gets back.

"Oh, for the love of-" Mike hisses, and darts back out of the side room. After a quick look around the library, he realises that the kids have skedaddled.

He returns to the librarian at the desk, vaguely irritated. After flashing his badge at her, he asks, "Is there anything you would be able to tell me about the gaming group? I'd like to have a chat with them, but they've run off."

"They're not in trouble, are they, detective?" The woman asks, looking worried. "They're ratbags, usually, but they're effectively harmless." She blinks at him through her gigantic glasses, and he is reminded, rather terrifyingly, of a caricature of a human-like rat from a children's book.

"No, they're not in trouble." Mike assures her, though that's not strictly true. "I just need to have a chat with them. Do you know where they might be?"

"Well, I can look up the room booking for you." The librarian says. "If you'd like?"

"If you could, yes."

She busies herself typing away at her computer for a moment or two, and Mike takes the moment to look around the rest of the library. He almost feels bad for barely passing by in the six years he's been in town, but in his defense, he's had a lot on.

"Ah, yes." She says, and pushes her glasses up. "James Rannells. It's usually him who books the room. I don't know his personal address, but his mum lives out at 3 Harris Road. She might know where he is."

"Thanks." Mike says, honestly. "I appreciate it."

Before he leaves the library, he goes back into the side room and has a proper look about inside. There's masses of papers stuck up on the walls - gaming guides, maps, and so forth - and for the first time, he truly appreciates the scope of the whole thing. It's an interest for a lot of people, even if he doesn't really understand it.

Harris Road is on the way back to the station, so he picks up lunch from a bakery nearby and hops back into the Kingswood, humming along to the nearest Tami Nielsen CD on the way there.

The raspberry danish is delicious, and he reckons he'll swing past the same bakery next time he's in the area (and not before). If he ate danishes as much as he liked he'd never have room for wine – and logically, chats with Jared - and honestly, that'd be a tragedy.

James Rannells's mum's house is small, middle-class – the kind of Kiwi standard model of house that fills the streets nationwide, with nothing particularly spectacular about it. It does, however, have a bright pink door.

Mike stares at it for a moment, then shrugs. If anything, it livens the place up a bit. Nothing wrong with sticking out if one wants to.

He presses the doorbell, and inside the house, a dog starts barking.

“QUIET, Emmie. Shut up!” A woman yells from inside the house, and he hears footsteps walking towards the door, before it swings open.

The woman inside is violently redheaded, and liberally coated in crystals. They hang over her ears, swing around her neck in a long chain, and she's even wearing some in her hair. “Yes?” She asks, smiling sweetly at Mike. “Can I help you?”

“Uh. Yes.” Mike says, blinking away his surprise. “I'm looking for James Rannells?”

“Who's asking?” A note of suspicion creeps into the woman's voice, and she pulls the door shut slightly.

“It's nothing bad.” Mike says, and flashes his badge for the third time that day. “I'm DCI Shepherd from the Brokenwood Police, Mrs... Rannells?”

“Ms.” Ms Rannells says, looking unimpressed. “Go on.”

“Ms.” Mike says, and clears his throat. “I'm, uh, following up on a lead surrounding a death in the city. James potentially has some information that could make my job a whole lot easier.”

The woman's frown deepens. “James isn't in trouble?”

“No.” Mike replies, trying his hardest to be calm and collected, to nullify any potential fallout from the situation, in case his interaction with James' mother comes back to bite him. “I'm just looking for some names. I'd really appreciate it if you could point me in the direction of James, if he's around.”

“Fine.” The woman says, “But you can't come in. I don't want your... aura polluting the place, Detective, if you don't mind.”

Her voice belies no chance of an argument.

“That's not a problem.” Mike says, easily. “My polluting aura and I will just wait out here. Take as long as you like.”

“Mhmm.” The woman says, and shuts the door.

“JAMESON RANNELLS!” She yells, still far too close to the door.

Mike winces.

“WHY IS THERE A BLOODY PIG AT THE DOOR?”

Mike winces, again.

He understands why people don't like the police, especially in New Zealand, and especially in an area of New Zealand that's been so unstable politically in the past, but even so.

“I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU, JAMESON. SITTING ON YOUR ARSE ALL DAY ON YOUR COMPUTER – YOU'RE KILLING YOUR SPERM COUNT AND YOUR POSITIVE ENERGY WITH THAT THING – JAMESON? JAMES?”

Mike leans in, just a little, because it sounds like something's gone wrong in the house - which is when he hears the abrupt smash of glass, and the sound of a body dropping to the ground to his left. Emmie, from inside the house, goes absolutely spare at the sound.

He leans around the side of the porch to see one Jameson Rannells, green hair and all, jumping out a high bathroom window, dropping to the ground along the side of the house, and hoofing it over his back fence.

“YOU BLOODY KID, HOW COULD YOU?” Jameson's mum screams, sticking her head out of the bathroom window. “WHY DIDN'T YOU JUST OPEN IT?”

“Sorry, mum!” Jameson yells, from beyond the back fence. “I didn't mean to!”

Mike gives chase, but it's obvious by the time that he reaches the small alley beyond the house that Jameson's disappeared.

“Comms?” He gets back to his car, puffing slightly, and radios in to the station. “Put out an APB for Jameson – James – Rannells, green hair, about six foot, with a massive laptop case with him. Last seen around Mahurangi East.”

He doesn't know why James has run off, but it doesn't seem good.

“I think,” Mike says, affixing Jameson's mum a stern look through the shards of her broken bathroom window, “you and I need to have a chat.”

She doesn't even have the good grace to look even a little upset at the thought.

This bloody case.

  
  


**Tuesday Night**

Jared's a little bit sleepy, considering the horror of the last few days, but he's not going to pass on spending some time with Mike, especially in his hour of need. The middle of a case always seems to be the most challenging time for him, and he likes to lend a hand where he can.

"How does no-one in this bloody town know anything about this gaming group?" Mike says, sounding far more irritated than he normally does about a case that's only a few days old.

"'This bloody town'?" Jared parrots, and sits down opposite him, vaguely irritated at the implication. "I know they're eluding you and all, cuz, but no need to paint them all with the same brush."

"Yeah- yeah, you're right." Mike says, and picks up the bottle sitting between them. "It's just been a day, is all. What are we drinking?"

"Milton Te Arai Merlot." Jared replies, looking at the bottle a little fondly. "It's from down on the East Coast. I've got a few cuzzies around there - they snuck a few bottles for me a couple Christmases back. Perks of the job, I suppose."

Mike fixes him with a mock-aghast look. "Are we drinking contraband wine, Jared? I'm shocked."

"Yeah, yeah- stop." Jared cracks the bottle and pours it into the two glasses sitting between them. "It's far from contraband. Some of the vineyards are a little lenient about these kind of things. It was very kind of them, and it's a good vintage, so stop complaining."

It's not contraband, not really - he'd never bring such a thing in front of Mike, for starters - but he'd been lucky to get it. His cuzzies had thoroughly extolled the virtues of such a good pour, and by the looks of things, they were right.

"I would never."

Jared rolls his eyes and raises his glass for a toast. "Drink your wine," he says, but there's nothing remotely irritated in it. He finds it very hard to be annoyed with Mike.

They clink glasses, and Jared takes a sip.

It's good, full-bodied and rich in exactly the way that he was hoping. "Bloody Wiremu was right." He says, pleased beyond belief. "I really thought he was pissing about like usual, but he was right. I suppose I'll have to make it up to him somehow."

"Send him a bottle from our vines if we ever get that up and running, eh." Mike replies, and the strangest thing is, he's not really kidding.

Jared's managed to get a pretty strong barometer of Mike's moods over the last few years, and it doesn't seem like a joke, at all. However, it's a little too soon, a little too fast. He plays it off a little, makes a joke to lighten the air. "Our vines, Mike? You've gotta muck in a bit to make that claim."

"I promise that I'll dig a few holes eventually." Mike replies, and nurses his own wine for a moment. "Once I've solved this case."

"I'm going to hold you to that." Jared replies. "I'll make sure of it. Get you out in the gumboots and everything."

"I don't have any gumboots." Mike says, suddenly coy. "Sorry. I might just have to pass that up."

"Well, you can borrow some of mine." Jared replies, not letting go. It feels a little like a verbal spar, a suddenly joyous moment under all of the nonsense they've seen recently. He relishes in it. "I'm sure I've got some that'll weather a city boy wandering about in them for a few hours."

"I've lived here for _six years_." Mike places his glass down on the table, firmly, thoroughly mock-aghast. "How dare you."

"Mmm, but you're not really from Brokenwood until you've passed out in the ditch in the front of the pharmacy with a bunch of stolen road cones after a 21st gone wrong." Jared says, because it's true. "And been woken up by Mrs Marlowe offering you an early-morning cheese roll."

"Is that a common occurrence?" Mike asks, façade suddenly gone, and he sounds genuinely interested all of a sudden. "Enough for it to become folklore?"

"Well, I can't speak for everyone." Jared sits back in his chair and thinks for a moment. "But it certainly did for me. I did a yardie of red wine at my 21st, and thoroughly regretted it."

"You're always had such a refined palate?"

Jared snorts. "Hardly. It was cheap stuff, the cheapest I could get at Liquorland, and I couldn't drink for months afterwards. My cuzzies mocked me enough for it that eventually I made them give me some of the good stuff. Now, it's basically all I drink."

Mike hmmms for a second, rather thoughtfully. "Well, I'm glad you did. Perhaps not for the sake of your liver, but for the sake of our chats."

"I like spending time with you too, Mike." Jared grins at him, a smidge bashfully. He likes Mike, and not just in the way that he has since the beginning. It's nice to have someone who likes books, and cleverness, and good, honest talk, in his life.

He feels very thankful about it all, sometimes.

"Actually." Mike leans forward again and steeples his hands together. "Sam and Kristen... Did they both end up in the ditch during their 21sts?"

“Well, I can't speak for Kristen, because she's probably too sensible.” Jared leans forward, conspiratorially. “Sam, though. I have... _stories.”_

“Do tell.”

“Well, he's definitely still got a street sign that he stole that night from Samuel Close, up by Telemore Rise? It's in his garage.” Jared admits, with a little bit of sass. “Is that a crime? I hope that isn't a crime.”

“I had a man on narcotics lie to my face today.” Mike says, tiredly, “And I didn't do anything about it. I'm not going to caution Breen because of a street sign.”

“Well, good.” Jared says, “because it's been there for eleven years and they replaced it almost straight away anyway. He's got a lot of things in that garage.”

“How do you know?”

“Because we're _mates,_ Mike. I spend a fair amount of time around there, watching Sam pretend that he's still got a girlfriend.”

“What-” And Mike reels back a little at that one, but fortunately Jared interrupts before he's got the chance to say anything more.

“Wow, look at the time.” Jared backpedals, thoroughly, and doesn't even look at his phone for the time. “The night's flown by. I've got to leave in a bit, you know, with all the terrible sleeping and all, got to get to bed early to make sure I get some rest. Tell me about this case, before you go. I might be able to help you out.”

There is an entire can of worms in his sentence that he really hopes Mike doesn't go into. It's neither the time nor the place to articulate exactly _why_ Brokenwood is so weird.

Mike, fortunately, leaves it. “The case is not going so well...”

The evening flows by with a small amount of case solving, but mostly a lot of good wine and pleasant company, and Mike doesn't ask about the Breen thing, which is probably for the best.


	2. Chapter 2

**Wednesday**

Wonder of all wonders, Mike manages to sleep through the night. It's probably because of the two or three glasses of wine he had before bed, or maybe his body's just in a good mood. Regardless, he welcomes it. It's nice to wake up without a splitting headache.

Down at the station, things are going very badly for the case. Jameson Rannells is still maurauding out around Brokenwood's cheap internet cafes, Breen, despite his penchant for hoarding street signs, still hasn't found a match for the murder weapon, and Simms still hasn't found a list of all the people currently in the gaming group.

The day itself doesn't go especially well, either. There's an armed robbery down the road from the station that requires an AOS callout, a patron from the Frog and Cheetah - who's drunk and parading around with his genitals exposed at 10am - vomits on Mike as he's trying to get him into a cell, and that's just the morning.

The afternoon, surprisingly, yields some results.

"We've found Jameson Rannells." Breen says, over the phone. "A security camera caught him breaking into some accommodation on the main road. Brokenwood Motel isn't best pleased though."

"Tell him we'll pay for the damages." Mike says, because reasonably, it had been on him that Jameson Rannells wasn't camping out in his own house. "What did he do?"

"Drank everything in the minibar and passed out on his bed, mostly." Breen replies, and he doesn't sound happy about it. "I reek of vomit and cheap whiskey, Senior."

"Sounds like your 21st." Mike adds, which is honestly a little bit mean, but he's been given a power and the unfortunate desire to use it.

"...What?" Breen replies, voice muffled, all of a sudden. "You dropped out there."

That's a lie, obviously, but it's quick thinking, so Mike silently applauds it. "Must have been a problem with the line. Bring Jameson in. I reckon we need to have a chat with him."

"Will do, Senior. I'll get the others to. Once I can wake him up."

"Oh, and Breen?"

"...Yes..." Breen replies, obviously suspicious of another potential dig at his youthful habits. "What?"

"Inform Jameson's mother. I suppose I'll have to have a chat to her as well."

"What kind of person names their kid Jameson?" Breen wonders. "That's setting them up for a weird path in life."

"It could be worse."

"Could it?" Breen says, and then rings off, without another word, which is really very uncalled for.

Jameson Rannells is far from cooperative, and also stinks of vomit and regret. His bright green hair is looking rather lacklustre at the roots, honey-blonde showing through, and he's not happy at all.

"Your mother is bringing some clothes for you." Breen says, and leads him towards the locker room for detainees. "Clean yourself up. If you try to do a runner again, we won't be as nice, alright?"

Jameson doesn't say anything, just sulkily strides into the locker room and starts stripping off his vomit-laden clothes.

"He tried to bite me." Breen says, and looks mournfully at his clothes, which are covered in a mixture of vomit, cheap booze, and a little bit of blood. "Little shit. We used to game together, you know? He was not this feral then. Should I get a tetanus shot?"

"No idea." Mike replies, jauntily, because the whole thing is really quite funny. "Can you get tetanus from human bites?"

"I don't know." Breen pointedly strips his suit jacket off. "Can I claim back for my dry cleaning?"

"Yes."

"Good. Give me ten to get another suit from my car and throw it on. Do you want me to be around for the interview?"

"You can ask the questions, if you want."

"Great." Breen says, and then pauses. "If I do that, will you make me talk to his mother as well?"

"...Why?"

"His mother didn't like me at all when I informed her that her son was here. And her dog tried to bite me. I would prefer not to interview her, if it's all the same."

"If we need to interview her again, I'll do it. Or I'll get Kristen to." Mike pauses for a second, suddenly curious. "What kind of dog is it?"

"The worst kind of hellbeast." Breen shudders, and leaves him only with that.

Ten minutes later, Sandra Rannells storms into the police station waiting room, a tiny chihuahua in her arms, and yells, "JAMESON."

The dog itself has a crystal studded harness on, and looks very uncomfortable.

"How many of those do you think are fake?" Mike asks Kristen, who is looking over at Sandra, less than impressed.

"Every single one." She replies, and goes back to her brainstorming. "Horrifying."

"JAMESON!" Sandra Rannells yells again. "WHERE ARE YOU, BABY?"

"Sandra." Mike decides to intercept before the police station itself gets a noise complaint. "Can I help you?"

"Your ginger officer polluted my house with his aura earlier, Detective Shepherd." Sandra screeches. "I will have to do a full cleansing this weekend, and I simply do not have the time right now."

The chihuahua wriggles about in her arms, and yaps.

Breen, who's just come back into the waiting area of the office, shies back. “Keep that thing away from me.”

“This is the hellbeast?” Mike asks, with a serious degree of amusement. “This is the dog that you were scared of? It's tiny.”

“Emelyn is a vicious beast who does and will bite.” Sandra says, without a hint of irony. “Where's my son?”

“Your son's getting cleaned up after an incident at Brokenwood Motel.” Mike says, “while we're waiting for him, I reckon you and I should have another chat, eh?”

“What can I do with Emelyn?” Sandra asks, somewhat mollified, “She doesn't like to be alone.” 

“If you can control her you can bring her along.” Mike replies, fairly sure he's going to immediately regret it, but it's easier than starting another argument.

He does.

He exiles the dog out of the interview room after it's peed on several things less than a minute after jumping out of Sandra's arms. Sandra complains, but really, his temper's getting a little frayed and it's only just after midday. Mike can hear the dog yapping faintly from further down the corridor and is reminded suddenly why he doesn't have a dog of his own.

He hopes, a little cheekily, that Breen is the one who has to take care of it.

“I'm going to ask you a few questions, Sandra.” Mike says, “and I would really appreciate it if you answered them honestly this time around, for both of our sakes.”

When he'd had a chat to her at her own house, she'd spun a tale that was mostly conjecture and a lot of wrong answers. He's getting close to something, he can feel it, he just needs to find out what.

She pouts, her crystal necklace jangling. “I don't appreciate being accosted like this, officer.”

“You were the one who came here, we didn't come to you.” Mike points out, and it's probably a little bit rude, but he's had a _morning._ “This interview will go over faster if we're both straight with each other. Did you know where your son spent the night?”

Sandra looks uncomfortable. “I had  _ ideas  _ of where he was spending the night, Detective.” She says, “But I didn't know for certain.”

“And how did you come across those 'ideas'?” Mike asks, almost sure that she's going to say something about crystals or auras.

“I tracked his phone.” 

“Yesterday, back at your house, you seemed very against the idea of technology.” Mike points out, genuinely curious not for the first time that day. “What changed?”

“My boy is rambunctious.” Sandra replies, “But he's not a bad person. I like to keep an eye on him. He doesn't know about it, and I can find him if he gets into trouble. It's for his own sake.”

“Fair enough.” He says, a little unsure of how to respond. The whole idea of tracking a person, who is an adult and old enough to live away from home, makes him uncomfortable for reasons that he can't quite place. 

Mike asks Sandra a few more precautionary questions. Nothing major, just some things to give him an idea of the bigger picture, but it's almost immediately obvious that she doesn't have any idea what's going on. 

He feels for her, truly. It must be hard to have no idea what's going on in a child's life – even if that child is in their mid-20s and clearly heading down a bit of a problematic path.

“Where's my dog, Detective?” Sandra asks, as he's leading her out towards the waiting room again.

“I'm sure he's just fine.” Mike replies, though the dog is surprisingly quiet and also nowhere to be seen. He really hopes Breen hasn't resulted to drastic measures to get the pup to shut up.

The sight that awaits the pair of them outside the front of the station is both surprising and a truly fantastic picture.

Breen is sitting on the front steps of the station, looking utterly bemused. The tiny chihuahua has its paws on his lap and is trying desperately to reach his face with its hungry little tongue.

The whole thing would do well on a Christmas card.

“Senior.” Breen says, obviously relieved, and leaps to his feet, the dog scrambling out of his way and off his lap, leaving muddy pawprints in its wake. “Thank God.” 

“Having a good time?” Mike asks, and tries his very best not to laugh.

“Jared came by and took pictures of me.” Breen says, mournfully, and hands the leash back to Sandra. “He laughed. A lot.” 

Sandra, who has been standing bemused between the pair of them for a few minutes, takes the leash and heads back towards her car. “Let me know when my boy is free, Detectives! I'll need to come and pick him up.”

“Will do.” Mike replies, and he and Breen watch as Sandra gets into her ute and drives off down the road and into the middle distance.

“She is... a very strange woman.” Breen says, still looking in the direction of the quickly-departing ute. 

“Yes.” Mike agrees. “Very strange. She did say something interesting, though. She tracks her son's cellphone, and he doesn't know about it. Might be a good idea to get one of the other officers to follow that up – see where he was the night of the murder to rule him out.”

“Will do.” Breen says.

“Do you want to go and have a chat with Jameson now?”

“That bloody name.” Breen remarks. “You know, I never even knew that was his name. I thought that it was James for three whole years.” 

“If you were named after a brand of alcohol, would you want to flaunt it?” Mike asks, and leads Breen back inside the station. 

“Maybe?” Breen muses. “If it was something cool. There's a lot of people called Sam in this town.” 

“Like what?” Mike swipes his card and opens the door. “What kind of alcohol would you want to be named after?” 

“Absinthe?” 

“That's a very bad idea.” 

Jameson Rannells is leaning over the interview table, looking clean but irritated. His hair dye's starting to lose its sheen and he makes quite the mournful picture.

“James.” Breen says, and starts the interview recording. “Why don't we start off with you giving us a few details?”

Jameson Rannells is twenty-seven years old, though he doesn't look it, and very unhappy to be in the interview room, judging by the sheer volume and pitch of his swearing.

“Yeah, yeah, thank you.” Breen says, continuing on like a trooper. “Ifyou could be reasonable for the time being and keep the swearing to a minimum so my notes are legible, we'd really appreciate it. We just want to have a chat, James.”

“I'm not in trouble?” The man asks, his first sentence in a while being swear-free.

“Aside from the break-in at Brokenwood Motel, no.” Mike interjects. “That, you'll have to pay for. But we're just looking for information at the moment, nothing more.”

“Alright.” James says, sits back in his chair and folds his arms. “What do you wanna know?”

“Why'd you run away yesterday?” Breen asks, his pen poised over his notepad.

“Was scared I was in trouble.” James shrugs. “My mum don't like cops. Neither do I.”

“Well, that's obvious.” Breen mutters, and notes it down. “Any reason why you thought you might be in trouble?”

James shrugs again. “Not really.”

“Okay.” Breen sighs, obviously realising he's not going to get anywhere with that line of questioning. “Have you heard about Jocelyn Simms?”

“Yeah.” James mutters, looking away. “Josie died. It's shit, eh.”

“Mhmm.” Breen notes that down as well, even though it doesn't really need it. “We've been looking for a potential motive for her death, and that led us to your group. You and I used to game together, James, but the group's changed since I left. Can you give me a list of names and a few more details about the people who still play?” 

“Mhmm.” James shrugs again, and puts his hands into his pockets. “I guess.”  


“Will you?” 

  
“Nah.”

Breen turns to Mike for a second, and jerks his head towards the door. The annoyance is practically radiating off him.

Outside, Breen looks a little like he's on the verge of a meltdown. “Sorry, Senior.” He says, “I'm just... pissed off, okay – he's deliberately being obtuse and after today it's driving me-”

“Cool it.” Mike says. “I'll take over. You go back to your research.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Mike says, and gestures, “go.” 

“Thanks, Senior. I was just – I never would have, obviously, but I was getting so close to punching him.”

“In truth, so was I.” Mike nods at Breen and moves past him back into the interview room.

Mike's fed up now, a faint hum of irritation bubbling under his skin. He's sure he's close to something, but he can't quite figure out what and James' reluctance isn't helping.

"I want this to go as smoothly as I can for you." He explains, when he gets back into his seat. "You've already caused enough trouble for us today - do you really want to make things worse?"

It's a little patronising, and he doesn't like being that way, but he hopes that his reasoning will get through to the young man. He just wants some answers, and he wants them as soon as possible. The whole case is grating on him, in ways that he doesn't like.

James doesn't reply to his question, just sits back up at the table, sullenly.

"Good." Mike replies. "Thank you. Tell me about your gaming group. Who's a part of it? What do you do?"

And James, to Mike's abject surprise, actually answers. "It's a few of us. Six or seven, usually, eh. Josie was part of it, but she ain't anymore, obviously. We play mostly  _ Civ _ . Things like that. Is that all? Can I go?"

"Who's part of this group? What do you... do, exactly?"

"We play  _ Civ _ ." 

"Yes, I understand that." Mike's horribly out of his depth. He'd done some Googling, had managed to understand the main concept of the game, but he still doesn't quite get why people play it. He asks James why.

"It makes me feel smart when I win." James shrugs. "I dunno. Mum always calls me dumb and stuff, but I used to win all the time. It was cool."

"Used to?"

"Yeah, we got a couple of players who were better." James shrugs again. "I'm getting there."

"Who do you usually play?"

"Meh." James scrunches his hands back into his pockets. "Usually the Aztecs if I can. Or the Zulu. They're better at world domination."

Mike's reading had included a few aspects on how to win the game. "You don't play for a science ending?"

"Nah." James says. "It's more fun getting to blow things up."

Mike, after some more prompting, manages to get a list of people in the gaming group off James. It's only six people long, but he hopes that the information is sound. He doesn't want to have to bring James in to talk to again. It's been one of the most challenging interviews of his entire career.

"Is there anyone you could think of that might have wanted to hurt Josie?" Mike asks, as his final question. He's exhausted, all of a sudden. The whole afternoon's been very draining.

"Her boyfriend?" James says, almost immediately. "He was a dick. Probably him?"

"Her boyfriend?"

"Yeah, uh... Tom, eh, he works at the fishing shop. The young guy? He's a dick. Always used to freak me out when he'd play with us. Big guy. Real aggro."

Well, that's given Mike some things to think about. He snaps his notebook shut. "Thank you, James. I'm going to send another officer in to have a chat to you about your behaviour at Brokenwood Motel last night, but you should be able to give your mum a call in an hour or so. You've been very helpful."

That isn't remotely true, but he's got more information than he had at the start of the interview, and that's all that matters.

Kristen and Breen are over by the whiteboard when he emerges out into the main room of the office, talking about something over coffee, and looking rather smug.

"What have I missed?" Mike asks, and pours himself a cup from the plunger. He's got a headache, beating right behind his eyes.

"Oh, nothing." Kristen says, quickly, and shoots a quick look at Breen. "Not work related. Find anything?"

Well, that's curious, but really, he's not in the mood to pry any further. "A few names. Some other leads. That interview was like getting blood out of a stone."

"Told you he was a dick." Breen says, to Kristen, who smirks.

"Third suit of the day, Sam?"

"Second." Breen replies. "That dog nearly did it, but I managed to brush all the dirt off."

"I thought that was rather cute." Mike adds, "It would have made a lovely Christmas card for your mum and dad."

"Yeah, get off." Breen rolls his eyes. "Anyway. The names? Who are we looking out for?"

Angela Green is 26, plays Greece usually, and is a very diplomacy-based player. Her boyfriend is Rory Smith, who's in his late 20s as well and usually plays Korea.

“They're both too nice when they play.” James had said. “It's boring. Always trying to do the sciencey things, win the game that way. It's like – why?”

Beth Patterson is 23, and plays Morocco. She plays alongside her sister Elizabeth, who usually plays England.

“It's funny, see.” James had explained. “Elizabeth, and Queen Elizabeth. Like, yeah. Good times.” 

Josie's boyfriend, Tom Riggs, plays Rome or the Incans occasionally, but he's not really into the game.

“Think he was only playing cause of her.” James had said, and slurped from his water glass. “He was real shit at it too. A bad loser. He nearly broke my laptop one time when he came dead last.”

And finally, Wiremu Taylor, who Mike is fairly sure is a relative of Kahu's. Whenever he played, he'd go for Egypt or Rome.

“Let's go halves.” Breen says to Kristen. “I don't know any of them, minus James.” 

“We'll third them.” Mike says. “It'll be faster. Kristen, take Wiremu and Angela. I'll go and see Tom and Rory. Breen, you take the sisters.” 

He notices Kristen looking squirrelly. “...what?”

“A relative of Kahu? Really?” 

“Consider it catharsis.” Mike replies, because it'll be good for her, and he's fairly sure the break-up was fairly amicable.

“That's not what catharsis means.” Kristen says, but heads off on her way anyway. 

**Wednesday Night**

It's dusk, the faint light flickering through a patch of cloud over the hills just before it sets. A faint evening chill has set in, cool but not cold, and the night is calm. Jared likes the coolness, the calm before the storm. It smells like rain, but it's not raining yet, and that's a feeling that he likes – a little bit of uncertainty, something to wait up for.

"Do you know anything about  _ Civilisation _ ?" Mike asks, as he sits down on his deck for their evening chat. 

"The... concept?" Jared asks, and perches on the edge of the deck. "Not really? In general, or..."

"No, no, I mean - the game. It's been a big part of this case recently, and I feel wholly under-informed about it."

"I'm no gamer." Jared says, and stretches out his plaid shirt beneath his legs. "Have you had a chat to Sam about it?"

"He tried to explain the whole thing to me and got irritated by my lack of knowledge in about ten minutes." Mike admits, "And fair enough, too. Computers and I... I never really got into the gaming buzz."

"Neither did I." Jared says, and leans towards him conspiratorially. "I've always been more of an analogue-type man, me. Honestly, keep it on the down low, because otherwise Kristen might come knocking, but I was really into chess in my youth."

"Your youth?" Mike snorts, "you're hardly out of it."

"Yeah." Jared shrugs. "I suppose, but I've been told I have an old soul. Consequences of growing up around a bunch of kuia, eh? Most of my relatives were over seventy when I was young and they're even older now."

"Don't worry." Mike says. "I think we'd both be very different people if we enjoyed technology as much as some do."

"Hey, I have time for a bit of tv now and then, and I won't say no to a movie or a good tune occasionally." Jared smiles up at him, "But life's too short to spend it on computers all the time. Things seem a little slower on this side of the fence."

"I'd hope so.” Mike says, and together, they just sit for a moment, listening to the occasional chirps of the birds in the trees, the Mahurangi to the west, and the wind blowing through the leaves.

“Why _Civ_?” Jared asks, after a moment. He's heard of the game, of course, mostly from his Wiremu – who he seems to just keep on running into at family gatherings – but also from Sam.

"This entire case seems built around it. I just can't seem to find the connection. Josie is killed, by some kind of arrow, and pushed off her balcony. It's meant to look like a suicide, maybe, but- I just- Jared?"

It's the word 'suicide' that's done it. He can see the Apartments again, feel the wind and the fear of Saturday night. Jared dry heaves out into the grass, looking miserable. He's gone very pale, and nausea bubbles in his stomach, making him panic. He holds his head for a moment, then sighs. "Atua, man. Try to keep that kind of talk down, eh?"

"Jared, I'm sorry." Mike slides off his chair and comes to dangle his legs off the side of the deck as well. "I didn't think. I'm sorry."

"Nah, cuz, it's all good. I should have expected it. Just-" Jared sucks in a breath, his heart still hammering in his ribcage. "I keep on seeing her land, and I can't get it out of my head, and it's the worst thing I've ever seen, and I'm counting the time that Kahu did sc-"

And he's panicking, too much, so much that he can see white spots in front of his eyes, and wow, this is one of the most embarrassing things he's ever done, and-

"Breathe." Mike places a reasurring hand on his back, right between his shoulder blades. "In for five, hold for five, out for five. Come on."

Jared, still struggling to suck in a proper breath, does as he's told.

There's something to be said about having a calming voice and a guiding hand on his side. He gets his breath back after a minute or so and slumps forward, his head in his hands, Mike's palm still flat on his back. "I didn't like that at all."

"Panic attack, probably." Mike muses. "Never had one myself."

"Where'd you learn to do that?"

"Like most of my stories." Mike says, a rueful smile on his face. "One of the ex-wives."

"She get panic attacks?" Jared asks, and turns towards him. Their faces are very close.

"She was a therapist. It was surprisingly helpful for some of my cases."

"Mmmm." Jared hmms under his breath, quietly, and chews thoughtfully on his lower lip for a second. "I'm sure it was."

It is a little like the quiet night wants him to make the first move.

But he doesn't get the chance.

Mike seems to shy away, and he clears his throat heavily and shifts back on the deck. "It was until she began evaluating our marriage. Hence the 'ex' part."

"How many ex-wives have you had?" Jared asks, and tries to ignore the light tension in the air.

"Oh, too many." Mike stares out at the night sky, which is pointed just on the edge of dusk. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Probably not." Jared agrees, easily, trying a little too hard to overcompensate for the strangeness in the air. "Just ex-wives?"

Mike snorts gently through his nose. "That is a story for another time."

"Sure, sure, whatever." Jared lies back on the deck to try and stop his head from spinning. It's only the panic attack - it's  _ probably _ only the panic attack, but he feels like the world's a little more stable when he's right up against it. A mozzie bites at his leg, and he smacks at it. "Bloody springtime."

"Want to go inside?" Mike asks.

"Sure. I don't think I'm up for a drink tonight, but I'd be keen on staying out for a little longer."

Inside, Jared scratches at his mosquito bite, irritated for reasons he can't quite place, while Mike fossocks around in his kitchen, fetching water and such - which is far too nice and he's absolutely only doing it because he feels a bit bad.

"Speaking of drinks." Jared lies back on the couch, kicks his shoes off, and stares up at the ceiling, which thankfully isn't spinning. "Should you be drinking on those sleeping pills? Won't that be bad or something?"

"No." Mike sets a glass of water down on the side table next to him, coaster and all. It's bloody weird being so close to someone who has coasters and such. Very, very strange. "Neil knows that you and I like our wine. He gave me some that don't react with alcohol. I'm not actually a masochist, no matter what you think."

"I would never!" Jared says, faux outrage in his voice. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I've seen too many good cops lost to the bottle." Mike settles down on an armchair near him and places his own glass of water down. "I love wine, but I know my limits. One or two a night is good for me. After that I just get sleepy."

"Yeah, I mean, I can go for a pint or two down at the Frog and Cheetah." Jared agrees, "but wine's more about the experience. You don't get that with a couple of crates of DB. I grew out of drinking just for drinking's sake a long time ago."

"As a student?"

"Oh, maybe even before that." Jared shrugs. "I don't know. I've been drinking since I was fifteen or sixteen or so - perks of a rural life."

"What did you first start drinking?" Mike asks, comfortably and carefully, from his position on the armchair.

"Mmm, probably DB? Purple Goanna? Really terrible things. I'm sure I had a couple of litres of Big Foot at some point in the mid 2000s but my brain won't let me remember that night. Probably for a good reason, too."

"...Big Foot?" Mike sounds curious, which isn't a good sign.

"Yeah, it was an RTD. Truly terrible vodka soft drink that you could buy in plastic bottles. I'm surprised you didn't run across it."

"I definitely spent a lot of time as a younger cop pulling drunk kids out of the gutter in the City." Mike replies, "but we often weren't too concerned with the specifics. Is Big Foot still around?"

Jared snorts. "Absolutely not. It was truly terrible. A mistake in a bottle. It faded out sometime in the late 00s, and for good reason. I think our lives would all be worse if Big Foot still existed."

Mike's quiet for a moment or two, probably mulling things over. That's Mike, though. He's very thoughtful, even when confronted with the realisation that he'd totally missed out on the worst RTD that New Zealand had ever seen.

"Oh, please tell me if you want me to get off your couch." Jared adds, because he hadn't really asked before collapsing down on it. "I'm very happy to move."

"No, no, it's fine." Mike says, and waves him off. He reaches for his laptop. "You look comfortable. Don't worry about it."

"It is comfortable." Jared replies, his head pillowed on the arm of the sofa. He feels a lot less dizzy now he's lying down, and even a bit sleepy too. He yawns. "I could very easily nod off here."

“Go ahead.” Mike says, head already in his laptop. “You look comfortable, and I seem to get more work done when you're around anyway. It's fine.” 

“Surely that hypothesis requires me to be awake and contributing to the conversation?” He jokes, but he's considering taking Mike up on it. The couch is comfortable, and it's only mid-evening. He's definitely got time for a little nap.

“Who knows?” Mike replies, absent-mindedly, still typing away. “I'll wake you up in an hour or so and you can trot on home if that worries you.”

“Mmmm.” Jared murmurs, quietly, and it's not really a reply, because he's already asleep.

Jared wakes up to sunshine the next morning, a blanket wrapped around him, and a note from Mike resting on the side table.

He'd slept the entire night, without waking.

Unbelievable.

_ In my defense –  _ the note is penned in Mike's scraggly script –  _ you never actually told me to wake you up. Stay as long as you like, there's food in the fridge, I'm off to work. _

That  _ bastard _ , Jared smirks, oddly buoyant for the time of the morning, and places the note back down on the table. 

However, he's not surprised, and he doesn't have to go to work today, so he's going to milk Mike's hospitality for all it's worth.

He pulls the blanket up higher and goes back to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thursday**

Jared had been sleeping peacefully when Mike had headed out to work at 8.30 that morning, so he'd written him a note and left him to it.

It was nice to see the other man so relaxed, especially after the trauma he'd seen. Jared had been carrying a dark cloud around with him for the last few days, and it was an uncomfortable thing to witness.

As he slept, the lines and pain in his face smoothed out. It made him seem more like his old self. It was good to see him look so calm.

Mike shakes his head for a moment. Not the time. He focusses back on the thing he's drawing in his notebook. It's the murder weapon, or thereabouts – an approximation of an arrow, a foot long, with a widened edge. It's familiar, somehow, but he can't place it.

“Angela's out.” Kristen says, and moves her picture and Rory's to the side on the blackboard. “And so's her boyfriend. Neither of them were in town during the window of the death – they were in the City having a weekend away. Security cam footage places them at the Grand Windsor Saturday night and they didn't leave until midday Sunday.”

“Saucy.” Breen says, and raises his eyebrows at her.

“Mmm, and especially with that price tag.” Kristen remarks. “That place is expensive. I guess they got their money's worth.”

“Good.” Mike says, going back to his doodling. “What about Wiremu?”

“No idea. He's not answering his phone, but we did have trouble sourcing a number for him in the first place, so it could just be an error on my end.” Kristen hmms. “Maybe ask Jared? I think they're cousins.”

  
“Well, he's asleep at mine at the moment,” Mike says, absent-mindedly, stifling a yawn, “but I'll pop by at lunch. See if he knows anything.”

There's silence, for a moment, and Mike looks up at the other two, who have a strange mixture of pride and amusement on their faces. Kristen looks a little like she's trying to hold back a laugh.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Kristen says, and goes back to the whiteboard. She moves a few things around, but nothing that actually means anything. “Nothing at all.”

“We're very pleased for you.” Breen says, and goes back to doing absolutely nothing at all.

“You two are incorrigible.” Mike says, finally getting it. He's more than a little embarrassed at the thought, not because it's a problem, but because he actually considers the possibility for a moment. “He fell asleep on my couch. I left him there because he's not been sleeping, and he was asleep when I had to leave.”

“Sure thing, Senior.” Breen says, clearly not buying it. “Sure.”

Mike sighs. “Get back to work.”

“It's your turn, Mike.” Kristen points out, obviously hiding a smile behind the edge of the board. “Talked to any of the suspects yet?”

“I'm still trying to figure out what the murder weapon is.” Mike says, “Gina doesn't know. I was going to chat to Rory today, but since he was out of town, I'll leave it unless something else comes up. Breen?”

“Both sisters seem harmless.” Breen shrugs. “Didn't get much off them. Far too clever for their own good, though, that's obvious. Beth might fit the height profile, but her sister is too short.”

“Good.” Mike sets them new tasks – Kristen's heading back to Josie's apartment to take a fresh look at things, and Breen's going to hunt down Tom.

On a whole, the case could be going better, and now he has his colleagues speculating about his love life.

Brilliant.

Mike gets back to the house at about 12.30 and Jared's up and about, already fossicking about around the grapes.

He trots over just as Mike parks the Kingswood and steps out.

“Cheeky trick letting me sleep in this morning, eh.” Jared says, and leans up against the other side of the car, but there's no malice in it, none at all.

“I figured you needed your rest.” Mike replies, because he doesn't regret it. Considering the way Jared had dozed off, it had been obvious. He wishes he could have relaxed as much as he had seemed to, but it was too late now.

“True, true.” Jared shrugs. “Thanks. What about you? Did you manage to-”

“I'm fine.” He had slept, after a while. He'd done some work and gone to bed about midnight. It hadn't been the best sleep, but it had been enough.

Jared purses his lips but doesn't go into it. “Sure. What are you doing back so early? Don't tell me that you lot exploded another microwave or something.”

“No, no.” Mike says, with some amusement. The whole microwave thing was funny. In hindsight. “I was looking for you, actually.”

“Me?” Jared asks, and comes around the other side of the car. He leans up against the driver's door, next to Mike. “Why?”

  
“Wiremu Taylor? He's a relative of yours, isn't he?”

“There's a lot of Wiremus in my family.” Jared muses, “But considering the case, yeah, I know the one. My cuzzie. Why'd you want to get hold of him?”

“We're looking for all the members of Josie's gaming group in connection with her death. He's been a little hard to get hold of.”

“Oh yeah.” Jared's face clears. “He doesn't have a phone. He doesn't like technology all that much.”

“He's part of a _gaming_ group.”

“Yeah, he might like his computer a lot, eh, but he doesn't like being contactable. Bloody nightmare trying to get hold of him, believe me.”

“Do you have his address?”

“Mmm, think so.” Jared fumbles around with his phone for a minute, seemingly swiping through emails. “Yeah. Gotcha. Last place he was staying was that new subdivision up by the edge of the forest? Clareville Crescent?”

“I've never heard of it.”

“It's very bougie. I think his girlfriend's got a place up the top.” Jared squints at his phone, barely illuminated in the midday sun. “Number 17. You heading along there now?”

Mike wasn't, really, but it's a good a start as any. “Yes.”

“Can I come with? I've not seen him in a while, and if we can't find him then I'll have to update my address book. Might as well do it on the go.”

“You're done for the day?”

Jared shrugs. “Not really, but I'll get it done. The frost didn't hit the grapes, so my job's a little easier than I expected.”

In the Kingswood, Jared fumbles through his tapes, occasionally pulling one out and chortling at it. “You are an  _old soul,_ bro, and I mean that in the nicest way. I don't even think my koro used to listen to this stuff.”

“I have refined taste.” Mike replies, though he knows that's not exactly how most people would describe it.

Jared sideeyes him, and slides the tapes back into their container. “Sure, bro. Whatever you say.”

The silence is comfortable on the way up to Clareville Crescent. They don't really talk, and Mike puts on a country record that's a little more mainstream than the others, so Jared can't complain.

It's just... nice, is all. Comfortable. Something he could get used to.

Clareville Crescent is a new housing subdivision, and rather too modern for Brokenwood. There's no heart to the houses – they're all seamless and beautiful, far more suited to the City than their little side of the world. Mike doesn't like it.

Even the City has heart, but these buildings feel alien.

17 Clareville Crescent is all gleaming walls and clear glass. At the very top of the three storey structure, Mike can see a couple leaning over the edge of a balcony, enjoying their time in the mid-afternoon sun.

“What does Wiremu's girlfriend _do?_ ” He asks, because he could never afford a place like this, even if he committed himself to a desk job for the rest of his career.

Jared shrugs. “Will's got a lot of stuff tied up in wine. No idea about his missus. It's pretty nice, eh? That's them up the top.”

Will Taylor has an easy-going smile, the tan of an East Coaster, and an affable demeanor. Mike likes him immediately.

His partner, Elise, is bleached-blonde and stunning as well.

It is all terribly well-to-do, and he feels thoroughly underdressed.

“Jaz, my bro.” Will says, and pulls his cousin into a hug. “How you doing, cuz? Enjoying that new product I sent you? Who's this?”

“This is Mike Shepherd.” Jared introduces him with a odd note of praise in his voice. “He's a detective with the Brokenwood Police.”

“A detective?” Will holds his hand out for him to shake. “'Suppose I should keep the more illict conversation under wraps then. Wiremu Taylor. Will, to my friends.”

“Mike.” Mike replies, and shakes his hand.

Will has a strong handshake, and is really quite charming. He's quite unlike the other gamers he's run into so far, but Mike supposes that the hobby draws in all types.

“Elise Johnson.” Elise shakes his hand as well. Her hand is cool, well-manicured. “I'm his better half. Can I get you anything, Mike? Jared?”

“We've got a lovely Malborough red if you're interested?” Will asks. “It's a good vintage, but not even on the shelves yet.”

“I wish.” Mike holds up a hand. “Unfortunately, I'm here on business. Do you mind if we have a chat? Somewhere private?”

“Not a problem.” Will takes off his sunglasses and leads them inside. “I hope that I'm not in any trouble, Detective.”

“We're just making some enquiries.” Mike replies, because he's not even spoken to the man yet, but his gut instinct is telling him that he's harmless. Very rarely his gut instinct is wrong, too.

“Of course.” Will says, smoothly. “Well, if you won't have wine, how about some elderflower cordial? It's alcohol-free and we brewed it ourselves.”

“It's real good.” Jared adds, from where he and Elise are chatting, across the other side of the elaborate living room.

It is a very hot day. “Well, go on, then. Thank you.”

“Not a problem.” Will says, and smiles brightly. “Let's go into my office.”

Will pours two glasses of elderflower cordial and leads them into his office, which is, like the rest of the house, full of shining surfaces, large windows, and feels very modern.

“So, Mike.” He says, and sets his glass down onto his desk. “How can I help?”

“We're making some enquiries about a recent incident that happened at the Massey Apartments.” Mike says. “Your friend, Josie?”  
  


“Oh yes, it was awful.” Will replies, shaking his head slowly. “I always worried for her, especially after... everything, but – I never thought she would take her life.”

“We have reason to suspect her death mightn't have been a suicide.” Mike says, gently, though he files the remark about 'everything' to ask about later. “Could you think of anyone who might have reason to take her life?”

Will's face drops, immediately. He looks devestated. “Who'd hurt Josie? There's no-one who- ...wait.”

Mike doesn't say anything. He just waits.

“Where was her boyfriend?” Will grips his glass with one hand. “That guy – he was real weird, and we all hated him. If anyone did it it would be him.”

Mike takes a sip of his cordial. He supposes their next port of call is Tom – if they can find him. He's got a headache. This damn case.

Back in the car, Jared is subdued. “I've never seen Will look that angry before. Josie's... ex must be a real piece of work.”

“Did you ever meet him?”

“Nah. Never went into that shop unless my uncle wanted something. It was never for me.”

Jared disappears off into the grapes as soon as they arrive back at Mike's place, looking pensive and a little annoyed. Mike can't blame him. His headache's blossomed, too, and he kneads at his forehead, a little annoyed at himself.

He hadn't known Josie, but it was clear that she had been well-liked.

“Tom's missing.” Breen bustles up to him as soon as he gets back to the station, in a different suit that he had been wearing earlier in the day.

Mike's not even going to ask. “Missing?”

“Since Sunday morning. His flatmates haven't seen him, he's not been into work-” Breen shrugs. “It's not a good look. I put out an APB and Comms is getting onto the airports, seeing if he's left the country.”

“Good.” Mike replies, though there's something still nagging at him, but he can't quite figure out what.

“Kris followed up on that phone tracking too.”

“Find anything interesting?” Mike swipes his card and leads Breen back into the main centre of the office to where Kristen is sitting, staring at the whiteboard.

“Jameson wandered about town on Tuesday night before he tried to break into Brokenwood Motel. He spent a bit of time wandering around town on Saturday too, before he went home at eleven. His phone was stagnant all night, and his mother was sure he was in bed, because she checked on him.” Kristen explains. “And we've checked the road cams all around his house – there was no sign of his car on the roads until nine the following morning.”

“Tom, then.” Mike replies, and does his best to hold back a yawn, pain spiking behind his eyes as he does so. “Follow up with Rory, too – when you get hold of him. My head is killing me, so I'm going to go home. Give me a call if anything changes.”

“Mrs Marlowe dropped this off too, while you were out.” Breen fetches an envelope from his desk. “I think it's a funeral invitation. For Josie.”

“Thanks.”

-

Jared doesn't come over that night, obviously too irritated by the day's events to make an appearance, and that's entirely fair enough.

Mike calls him, asks him if he wants to come to the funeral the next morning, and Jared says yes.

His temples still throbbing, he takes an early night, and he feels bad about it. There's something missing about the case – something he can't quite reach, but he doesn't know what it is.

It's frustrating.

**Friday**

He runs.

He hammers on Mike's front door, breath coming out short in the cool night air.

He's horrified. It's horrifying. Why does this keep on happening?

“Jared?” Mike blinks at him, like he can't quite believe what's happening, as he opens his front door. “What's wrong?”

“There's a body-” He gasps, uncharacteristic but completely taken aback. “In the river.”

Mike's moving faster than he anticipates, grabbing a coat, and sliding his feet into some boots. He's already got his phone gripped in his hand, but then again, nobody opens their door at three in the morning expecting _good_ news. “Show me.”

The walk to the banks of the Mahurangi is quick, their breaths coming in short puffs and misting up in the cool air. He leads Mike down, underneath the bridge, and across, slightly.

Jared shines his torch out into the river, towards a bank of mud and weeds about halfway across its width, and he doesn't want to look again, though he has to. “There. I saw him from the bridge.”

The body is bloated. Damp too, but it doesn't look like it's been there too long. At least, Jared thinks so. He doesn't really know, but through his hazy, strange delirium, he's willing to _try._

It does, however, look like it's shifting around in the current. A few minutes more and it could be swept down the river. Its position is precarious, dangerous.

Mike takes a moment, and dials. He says his officer callsign, then, “10-9, Comms. Body in the Mahurangi, near 157 Arthur's Line. Due process requested.”

After a moment, he sighs, hangs up, and hands his phone to Jared, who fumbles, but manages to grab it. “Hold onto this, would you?”

“What are you-” Jared starts, but Mike's already stripped off his jacket and is wading into the water, torch held high. “... Shouldn't have asked.”

“Sit down.” Mike replies, in lieu of a proper answer. “You look like you're about to go into shock.”

Jared sits down, heavily, on a rock, and grips tightly onto his knees. It's like a bolt of exhaustion has finally hit him, draining all his energy down into the earth below. “I was just... looking at the moon, y'know. Couldn't sleep.”

“Then you saw him.” Mike replies, and he's waist-deep in water, but it probably doesn't matter because they're just down the road from their houses.

“Yeah.” He doesn't need to say any more, because the feeling is enough. Another person, another soul, lost to Brokenwood. He's tired. His body feels heavy. “Why are you in the water?”

“It'll be a few minutes until the officers get here.” Mike says patiently – too patiently. “I don't want him to be swept away.”

And faintly, Jared supposes he knew it was a him. “...mhmm, good point.”

“Just relax.” Mike says, and in the distance, he grabs onto the shirt the soul is wearing, white nearly transparent with the water. He pulls, the body flips over and he- stops.

“What?”

Instead of answering, Mike just says, “Tom Riggs – he was Josie's boyfriend, wasn't he?”

“Yeah, and he was an arse.” Jared replies. “Why?”

Mike doesn't answer, just grasps the body gently and starts pulling it towards the riverbank.

It doesn't take Jared long to realise who it is.

“Tom.”

“He didn't do a runner.” Mike sighs, and tugs the body up onto the bank. “He must have been here the whole time.”

“Damn.”

Jared didn't like Tom, couldn't even stand to be within the sight of him at the best of moments, but he doesn't deserve this, his corpse horribly bloated, disfigured by the weight of the water, his soul present no longer.

He gags, and presses back against the rock a little.

Mike just looks displeased.

Jared doesn't protest when the paramedics wrap him in a blanket once they arrive. He's shivering a little, not from the cold, and the reality of the whole thing only finally seems to hit once he's in the middle of a mug of tea, sitting on the edge of an ambulance, being questioned by an officer.

“You're sure there's no-one who can account for your wearabouts this evening?” The officer asks. She's young, probably younger than him, and has a brusk demeanor. He knows she's only doing her job, but even so.

“I was with Mike- uh, DCI Shepherd – for some of the afternoon.” He replies, neglecting to mention the sleepover. The Brokenwood rumour mill doesn't need anything added to it. “Then I came back, worked on the grapes, had dinner, couldn't sleep – so I went for a walk? The security cameras on the highway might have caught me?”

“Thank you.” The officer says, stiffly, and closes her notebook. “You've been very helpful.”

“Anything to help.” He replies, and rests his head against the edge of the car's door. “Can I go home now?”

“Well, I'll have to-”

“I'll take over from here, Officer-” Mike says, shuffling up gently beside her. He's wrapped in a towel, but he still looks bedraggled and a little damp.

“Lyons.” Officer Lyons replies, looking a little taken aback at Mike's appearance. “Are you su-”

  
“Yes.” Mike replies. “DC Jones needs some help over by the riverbank, if you wouldn't mind?”

“Sure, boss.” Lyons replies, then blushes heavily. “Uh. DCI Shepherd, sorry – Yes.” She shuffles away.

“Do you have that effect on all women?” Jared teases, though his heart isn't really in it. He can still see Tom's face, just on the edge of his consciousness, all bloated and rough and tragic.

“Reputation proceeds. Unfortunately.” Mike sighs, and sits down next to him. “How are you doing?”

“Could be better.” Jared stares out at the waters of the Mahurangi again. He looks over after a moment, nudges Mike in the ribs. “If I'm not mistaken, this puts you right back to square one with the case, eh?”

“I can't discuss it.” Mike replies, but there's something heavy in his expression which makes Jared sure he's right.

“And you're going to go right down to the station now and sit in your office with it weighing on your conscience until something hits different, right?”

“I was planning to, yes.”

“I'm not knocking the job, bro, but- that's not healthy.” Jared lays his head against the side of the ambulance with a sigh. The Mahurangi laps in the distance, whispers in his ears, makes him sleepy and malleable, all at the same time.

“You should go home.” Mike says, and looks over at him, a gentle look in his eyes. “You look exhausted.”

“Your officers seem intent on interrogating me. Apparently being in the wrong place at the wrong time twice in a row seems... suspicious?” He's trying to be teasing, but the words come out a little more harshly than he intends. It's not Mike's fault – Jared is just all too familiar with the New Zealand Police, and he knows that a lot of them aren't nearly as leniant as those in Brokenwood.

And he's just seen a dead man. It's no time for comedy.

Mike huffs, looking displeased, and stands. “Come on. You're not a suspect. I'll walk you home.”

Jared stands, stumbles immediately, and Mike reaches out, as though on autopilot, to steady him.

He catches the younger man by the elbow, and they both waver, just for a second, breathes mingling in the night air.

“Nice of you to do the gentlemanly thing,” Jared murmers, quietly, under his breath, amd looks up at him, “But you're not looking so hot either, Mike.”

“Come on.” Mike replies, though he knows it's true. It's been a long night for them both. “I've got to get back to work, but I'll walk you home first.”

And so he does.

They shouldn't really be discussing the case – for confidentiality reasons, but also for the sake of their sanities. It's five am, maybe five thirty, and if it was summer, the sun would be peeking over the trees.

But it's not, and it isn't.

The walk back isn't hurried, but quiet. The river, and the murders, feels so far away.

“I'm sure I'm missing something.” Mike says, breath hanging in the air. “But I can't-”

He doesn't finish his sentence. What's unsaid is said. Jared blinks away the tiredness in his eyes, and tries to focus. “No suspects.”

“We've still got options, but none of them fit. Their alibis are too strong – it could have been a stranger, someone we don't know – but statistically, that doesn't check out. I'm sure it's someone we've talked to, but...”

It's not often that Mike is lost for words, but it's obvious that the case is weighing heavily on his conscious. That, and Jared's sure that he's still dealing with the events of a few weeks previous. He knows Mike well, and he knows that he'd not have put his own mental state in enough of a mind when working on a new case.

That's Jared's problem – his uncle always says – he's a little too perceptive.

His lights are still on when they get back to his place. He supposes he forgot to turn them off in his wandering.

That's another one of his problems – he's definitely left the house unlocked.

“This is me.” Jared says, yawning, and turns to Mike, who's eyelids are definitely drooping in the faint light from his kitchen window. “You're going to be alright?”

“I-”

“And tell me the truth, ow. I know you.”

Mike reconsiders, for a moment. “I'll feel better once the case is solved.”

“Yeah.” Jared hums, faintly, under his breath. “Yeah, I figured you'd say that.”

“Night, Jared. Get some rest.” Mike says, softly, which is all very hypocritical of him to say. “You need it.”

“Yeah. Will do. Cheers.” Jared says, though he doubts he will. But Mike seems distracted, and if he can do one thing to allay his melancholy, he'll do it. He squeezes Mike on the bicep gently, and heads towards his house.

Things feel... unfinished, in a way, but he doesn't know how to broach it.

“Jared?”

“Yeah?” He turns back, about a foot from his front door.

Mike looks even more fatigued, if that's at all possible. “Knowing what you know about this case, and obviously this is completely off the record – who do you think-”

“Jameson.” Jared replies, without even having to think about it.

“Why?”

“I mean, I don't know him well – and his mum's a bit weird – but he's always rubbed me the wrong way. Bro's way smarter than you'd think, too. He did some tech work for Kahu when he got real into geocaching a while back. It's a shame his-”

“Jared.” Mike stops him, eyes gleaming. He looks more awake than he has in hours. “I could kiss you.”

And Jared's smooth usually, eh, but he's tired, and a little anxious, and more than a little bit taken aback, though his heart does an odd little beat at the thought. “Say that again when we've both slept, and I'll take you up on it. What is it?”

“The case.” Mike gasps, hand obviously itching to go for his phone. “I've got to go. I'll- see you- later?”

“Yeah.” And he swallows heavily, heart still thudding heavily in his chest, and it feels _right._

**Friday (later)**

In the end, it's all wrapped up rather nicely.

Jameson Rannells had been more onto it than they had all thought, but he'd not been good at keeping his mouth shut. It hadn't taken him long to confess, once they'd had the details.

He was madly in love with Jocelyn, and had been rejected. He hadn't thought her boyfriend was good enough, and had killed him – pushed him off the Mahurangi bridge one night under the cover of darkness.

He'd met Jocelyn, in her apartment. Confronted her, strangled her, stabbed her in the back with a makeshift metal tool – styled somewhat like the Aztec weapons he'd always played with in his _Civ_ sessions – and pushed her off the balcony.

Jameson had noticed his mother prying into his life, and he'd planned the murders. He left his phone at home the night he'd killed the players, hid himself as he'd walked around Brokenwood, and had returned home before she'd even noticed he'd been missing.

But he'd been found on a highway camera, crossing State Highway 2, right when he'd said he'd been at home the night of the murders.

It hadn't been hard once they knew who they were looking for.

Love, Mike muses, once he's written up the bulk of his paperwork. It always seems to come down to love.

He ducks out of work just before five, sleep pulling at the corners of his eyes. He's been up for fourteen hours, and he'd not slept well before he'd been woken by Jared, but he feels... satisfied.

Better.

It's not like the case feels _good,_ because it's a murder, and they never do, but it's done, and it's over, and it's out of his life. Jameson will be convicted easily, with his confession and the evidence, and though it will never bring Jocelyn and Tom back, it'll give their souls some peace.

That's all he can do.

He drives the Kingswood home.

_Can I come over?_ Jared texts, three or four minutes after Mike's stepped in his front door.

He's sleepy, yes, but it's a comfortable kind of tired. He's also more satisfied than he has been in days. The couch is comfy, and he's got no plans.  _Yes._

“Jameson?” Jared asks as soon as he steps in through the door, a bottle of red in one hand, and elderflower cordial in the other.

“How'd you know?”

“The look in your eye when you left this morning.” Jared says, and then backpedals a little sheepishly as he slumps down onto the couch next to him, “And I ran into Mrs Marlowe when I was at the supermarket. She expressed concerns about the welfare of Mrs Rannells' dog?”

“I'm sure the dog is fine.” Mike replies, dryly, with an edge of a yawn, “Probably more than fine. I suspect that dog got more love than Jameson ever did.”

“Grim.”

“Truly.”

“Gift from Will.” Jared places the bottles down on the low table in front of the couch. “He said something about 'being happy for me', or what have you – I didn't stick around to find out.”

“Nice of him.”

“Yeah.” Jared replies, “and I wasn't sure if you'd want to drink after... everything. So, here? Consider it a gift, or something.”

“Thanks.”

They sit together in silence for a moment or two. It's not quite comfortable, because it's obvious that Jared has something on his mind.

“You know...” He says, after a few moments. A little slyly, he looks up at Mike through his lashes. “I think I remember you saying something interesting before you ran off this morning.”

“I have no idea what you mean.” Mike replies, though he knows, and he's sure, and his heart doesn't _leap_ at the thought, but it does shudder a little.

“For all your merits,” Jared replies, looking up at him wide-eyed and cheeky, “you're a really bad liar.”

And he pulls Mike in and kisses him, and it's not quite _perfect,_ but it's certainly something he wants to get used to.

It'd be a little poetic, he thinks, if he wasn't on the verge of falling asleep, but there's time for romance later, and right now, they both need to _rest_.

_Fin._

**Author's Note:**

> hit me up on the [ tumblr ](http://eph-em-era.tumblr.com) for more of my nonsense
> 
> I love how i was going to write like a real quick oneshot and it turned into 20 thousand words of worldbuilding and forgetting characters' names.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Danced until we flat out falling into bed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25249876) by [MadHatter13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadHatter13/pseuds/MadHatter13)




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